


Bound & Sealed

by Butterfly_Beat



Series: Bound [1]
Category: Torchwood
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-03
Updated: 2010-02-03
Packaged: 2017-10-07 00:15:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/59273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Butterfly_Beat/pseuds/Butterfly_Beat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gwen & Owen learn the hard way that aliens don't always make you do it, and sometimes you just have to learn to live with it.  Jack learns that his grasp of 21st century law isn't quite what he thought it was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bound & Sealed

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written during the hiatus between S1 and S2. As a result, canon beyond "End of Days" does not apply to this story or those that follow it in the "Bound" universe.

**Secondary Author's Note:** [This site](http://www.divorceuk.com/pages/keyissues/divwales.php) has the basic legal info for Welsh divorce. If you live in the UK and know differently, _please_ let me know. Also, bonus points to anyone who can place the form mentioned in the second to last scene. Here's a hint, it's based on a form used by the US Navy, which was referenced in a first season NCIS episode.  


* * *

In the end, it was quite possible that the entire mess could be traced back to boredom.

At 08:30, the team was called out for a standard fetch and carry - someone's grandfather died with a bunch of dubious antiques in the basement, the inheriting grandson _touched_ one of them, and promptly got knocked into next week. Cue Torchwood. There were days when Gwen was rather certain that Jack had lied about her job description, and that she was actually working for a cleverly concealed estate sales agency.

Five minutes of tense scanning revealed what had become a sort of universal truth about fetch and carry operations - the poor bastard currently sleeping off his encounter with an interstellar lawnmower had managed to find the only device with a functioning power source. This, in turn, meant a day filled with paperwork. Completely, absolutely, and horrifically _boring_ paperwork. The world ran on red tape, after all, especially for those members of Torchwood who didn't have specialized degrees or supervisory authority.

* * *

Having completed the intake-and-backtrack paperwork for the new devices, all twenty-three of them, Gwen decided to take a break before the eye-strain caught up with her. Given that Jack and Ianto had disappeared into the archives in search of something-or-other - she wasn't even sure they'd actually bothered to give an item of interest, but then it wasn't like they thought they were fooling anyone - Gwen's options for entertainment were limited. After a moment of consideration, she went with Tosh. Despite appearances, Tosh couldn't possibly be _that_ busy; nothing that they'd found had power, and Gwen had been around long enough to know that most of the scans were automated.

Stretching her legs, Gwen walked across the room, grabbing the chair from Owen's work station and placing it next to Tosh's desk before sitting down. As she waited for Tosh to finish her current email, Gwen picked up one of the inert alien devices and turned it over, tracing the decorative swirls that covered its metal surface. On the slow days, it took Tosh an average of three minutes to ask if Gwen needed anything. Gwen was content to wait, because she'd hit the point where _anything_ was better than staring at her monitor for the next five minutes.

"Oi, what do we have here?"

Owen's voice pulled Gwen out of her inspection of Device UAI-01109. As he climbed the stairs from autopsy to the main work areas, Gwen belatedly realized that he had to be almost as bored as she was. Studies of weevil behaviour or no studies of weevil behaviour, there was only so long Owen could bring himself to sit still on any given afternoon when he didn't have an active mystery on his hands. Reaching Tosh's workstation, he leaned over Gwen's shoulder and peered at her chosen distraction of the moment. "You getting delusions of grandeur, Cooper? Started doing the identifications now?"

She took a half-hearted swipe at him with the whatever-it-was, unsurprised when she failed to connect with her intended target. "Oh, sod off."

He ignored her, and retaliated by catching the device and giving it a sharp tug. Gwen hung on, unwilling to relinquish her makeshift weapon. The device gave a low pitched beep, and the display panel lit up, flashing a stream of alien script. They froze, because that kind of thing was _never_ good. In unison, they executed Torchwood Standard Procedure Number Four - get the fuck away from the glowing alien tech. The device fell to the desk, landing harmlessly and giving no indication that it had just lit up like a window display at Christmas. They stared at it a moment, waiting to see if it was going to light up/explode/burst into song, but it just sat there. Looking innocent. Tosh, on the other hand, looked furious.

"If you two insist on fooling around, can you please do it _elsewhere_?"

Gwen and Owen glanced at each other and broke off for their respective workstations. Not that they were scared of Tosh, because that would be silly. But she'd been touchier than ever since they'd started shagging again, and there really was no need to start a fight. The day wasn't _that_ quiet.

* * *

As she picked up dinner, Gwen reflected that it was probably a bad sign when the kid working the till at Uncle Cho's knew her by name. Especially given that the hole-in-the-wall was a block from Owen's flat and a good four kilometres from her own. The fact that she couldn't bring herself to care was probably another bad sign, but then she'd long since stopped counting. There were a lot of things in her life that were better if she didn't analyse them; she did plenty of analysing when she and Owen clicked over to "off", and she found herself scrambling to keep things with Rhys out of the frying pan. The latter generally involved a lot of apologies, even if the explanations were few and far between. It had gotten to the point where she didn't even have to lie - he'd stopped asking where she was or when she would be home. Add one more tick mark to the ever-growing list.

"Pass it over, love."

She blinked, startled by the sudden request. "What?"

"Pass me the food, and you can get your kit." He reached over and grasped the bag, tugging when she didn't release it. "Unless you fancy spending the night here. Now, I know it's a posh car, but it's not that nice..." He trailed off, studying her more carefully. "Gwen, you all right?"

"I, sorry. I'm. I'm fine." His hand brushed against hers, and she shivered at the sensation. She closed her eyes, blood running hot beneath her skin as sense memory kicked in. They touched at work - they couldn't _not_, given their jobs - but when they were off the clock it was always different. Even when they weren't 'on', that spark was always there. Tonight it was worse, better, _stronger_. Her thoughts turned to the last time he had touched her, _really_ touched her, four days ago. Suddenly, it was too long. Far too long. She drew in a shaky breath, and opened her eyes to find him staring at her in concern.

"Gwen, you sure you're all right?"

His voice was gentle. Owen was many things, a good deal of them not-that-nice, and she could count on her fingers the number of times he'd been gentle with her. All but one had followed a potentially life-threatening injury, and she still wasn't sure that Jack's disappearance didn't count as such. In some distant part of her mind, she tried to puzzle out what could have brought about that voice, knew she should be worried, but her attention wandered before she reached an answer. "I'm fine." She leaned over, using her free hand to grab a fistful of jacket and pull him in for a kiss. "I've just decided that I want dessert before dinner." She took her time, catching his lower lip between her teeth and giving it a gentle nip. She allowed herself a moment to enjoy the resulting hitch in his breath - not quite a sigh, but too quiet to be a groan. Never let it be said that Owen couldn't be easily distracted. She pulled away when she felt his hand trail up the side of her neck, and gathered her bags as she opened her door. She stood, and leaned down to catch his gaze.

"Are you coming?"

* * *

 

The moment the door slid shut, the Chinese hit the floor and Owen had her pressed up against the wall, mouth hot and demanding. "It's not nice to tease, love." She didn't bother with an answer, too busy sliding her hands underneath his jacket and pulling up his shirt in her need to get _closer_.

Chinese was better cold, anyway.

* * *

 

The next morning, Owen took the first shower. He always took the first shower, and she always made coffee. When their whatever-it-was had begun, she'd wondered if he expected her to leave while he was in the bathroom - she'd never had a casual fling before, if that was even what they were doing. When she'd taken the direct approach and asked, he'd shrugged and answered with his characteristic bluntness. "Whatever suits you, love. Make coffee, hit the road, I don't really care. I'll give you a ride in, if you want, but I don't cook breakfast for anyone." Since then, they'd had an easy understanding about mornings; it was probably the only aspect of their whatever-it-was that _was_ easy.

As she heard the water turn on, she gave into the inevitable and dragged herself out of bed to go looking for her overnight bag. She was reasonably sure that it had made it through the front door, although she would admit that her memory of the evening was more than a little hazy. Not wanting to wander the flat naked - she was never sure how well people could see in the windows of upper-level flats, and she wasn't about to give anyone a free show - her first stop was his closet. Or would have been, if the bureau hadn't caught her eye, distracting her from her morning routine.

She found herself drawn to the fourth drawer down the chest, and opened it, unsure what she was looking for. Inside was a row of folded shirts with various logos. All of them were obviously old and well-worn, but she found herself picking through restlessly, searching for something specific. The moment she felt what she was looking for, she knew she was never giving it up. It was an old rugby shirt, faded and soft from years of abuse and wash.

Despite the suspicion that Owen was going to kick her ass for going through his things, she slipped it on, shivering as the material caressed her skin. The knowledge of his response came with a surprising degree of clarity. Surprising because while there had always been unspoken lines to their whatever-it-is, they'd always been blurry and hard to judge until it was too late. Never visible until they were crossed. Even what the two of them _were_ was hazy and messy and inconstant. Always changing, but always there in the back of their minds. Gwen didn't want to name it an affair, even though she knew that's what the others called it.

She and Owen had been on and off roughly three times since she joined Torchwood. Roughly, because the shifts were never absolute, even when they appeared so. A single word or action could invert the entire dynamic without warning. The first had started a few months after her transfer and lasted just past the Christmas holiday. The second had been less formal, as these things go, and was quiet, desperate comfort in back hallways as they tried to pull each other through the hectic days of Jack's absence. Upon their leader's return, they'd broken off again, attempting to return to the way things had been. But things _weren't_ as they had been, which was the only way she could explain why she was once again frequenting Owen's flat more often than her own. The nights with Rhys had grown increasingly insomniatic, and a solid night's sleep was more important than her relationship with him. No one would die if she and Rhys had a few more fights, but she couldn't take the risk that she'd slip in the field. That was her excuse, and she knew it was an excuse, but by the same token she quite honestly _didn't_ know why she did what she did with Owen. It wasn't love, that was for sure. Lust, maybe, but not love.

Love was for real relationships, not office fuck-buddies. They'd never had any pretentions about that, and it was one of the reasons things worked as well as they did. Rhys had always remained a constant in her life, and she knew that Owen had taken home his share of bar birds when they were in the "off" portion of their whatever-it-was. Diane was something they didn't talk about, but she knew Owen had taken the pilot's disappearance badly. Knew that he'd mourned her loss far more than one would a one night stand. If Gwen were honest with herself, the fact that she ended up in Owen's bed every time her life went to Hell in a hand-basket was probably another of those bad signs. She'd learned a lot about not being honest with herself since she started at Torchwood. It was a survival skill.

Shaking off the introspection, Gwen rummaged through the top drawer until she found the pair of her knickers that she _knew_ he'd been keeping there, despite his fervent denials. Now comfortably attired, even if she knew it was going to land her a smack on the ass, she made her way to the kitchen and started the coffee, throwing in some toast as well. She felt Owen before she heard him, knew he had stopped in the doorway to the living areas as she opened one of the cabinets looking for the mugs.

"Where the _fuck_ did you find that?"

Even though she knew he was there, she almost dropped the mugs at the suddenness of the exclamation. She set the ceramics on the counter, not bothering to turn around. "The mugs? I found them my second time over; you know that."

"Gwen..." She paused in her efforts with the coffee machine; there was something _off_ about his voice. There was anger, but there was something else. Old and hidden well, but still there. She hadn't expected that, and she turned, hoping to gain a clue from his expression.

"What? You've never minded my borrowing your clothes before." Which was true. "It was in the bureau; I didn't think you'd mind me grabbing a shirt." Which wasn't quite as true, but a little white lie never hurt anyone.

He opened his mouth to respond, but paused, narrowing his eyes. "You're lying."

There was something unnerving in the certainty of his declaration. "No, I'm not." She knew as soon as she spoke that her defence had been too quick, but it was too late to take it back. She ducked her head and brought a hand to her neck in a nervous habit, rubbing absently at a bruise as she tried to think. As she traced the tender skin, she felt a rush of desire start low in her belly. It was hot and visceral, as strong as it was unexpected. When she risked a glance up, wondering why Owen hadn't called her on her weak response, she found him staring at the point where her hand rested on her neck, eyes dark.

A suspicion started to form, nasty and uninvited and just plain _unfair_. Work had invaded every element of her life; she accepted that. But she drew the line at her sex-life, damn it. Testing her theory, she dropped her gaze again and stroked the love bite on her neck with a single finger, slowly tracing the edges of the newly tender skin. There was a corresponding spike in emotion, and before she could process what was happening, Owen had crossed the space between them and pulled her into a kiss that made thinking about _anything_ impossible.

* * *

 

Half an hour later, standing under the spray of his shower, she remembered her theory. She also remembered the toast. Twenty minutes, a half-dozen broken traffic laws, and a curious look from Ianto later, the two of them entered the Hub with vain hopes for a simple answer.

"You ask her." Owen's hissed command was anything but subtle, but luckily Tosh looked to still be on her first cup of coffee.

"Me? What about you?" Gwen responded, more out of principle than an aversion to attempting the interrogation. Owen did tactful about as well as her mother, and wasn't _that_ just a lovely thought for early in the morning.

"Listen, do you want an answer, or not?" She felt his agitation spike, and closed her eyes in an attempt at stamping it down. She was anxious enough without him adding to the mayhem, even if it was only background noise. When she'd sorted out whose emotions belonged to whom, she opened her eyes again to find that his expression had shifted to just this side of desperate.

"Fine." She turned away with a huff, straightening her shoulders as she made her way to Tosh's workstation. As she approached, she put on her friendliest smile and leaned against the edge of the desk. "Morning, Tosh."

"Morning." Tosh nodded absently, peering intently at her screen.

"So, we- I. I was wondering if you'd had a chance to identify any of the devices that we found yesterday."

Gwen shifted uncomfortably, glancing over at Owen only to find him giving her a thumb's up. She scowled and turned her attention back to Tosh, who still hadn't looked up from her monitor.

"Nothing yet. Since none of them have power, it makes it harder to place the items if they don't have writing. A few are currently being run through the database, but I haven't gotten any hits yet. Jack hasn't bothered to look them over yet; important phone call with the Russians or something."

Gwen glanced at the assorted alien devices, before casually picking up the item which had lit up so spectacularly less than twenty-four hours earlier. "What about this one?"

"Oh, I know that one."

Gwen looked up, startled to find that Jack had descended from on high. Apparently the Russians hadn't been chatty. A 'chat' with the Russians could take up most of the morning, unless a Weevil or three crawled out of the woodwork. Jack was very explicit that a Weevil had _better_ come crawling out of the woodwork if the teleconferences ever ran longer than forty-five minutes. "Really?"

Jack gave her a cheeky grin, accompanied by a knowing wink. Gwen had to work hard to resist the urge to roll her eyes. "Oh, yeah. That's a Davorian Betrothal Sealer. Developed by the priests of Davor to facilitate arranged marriages. Fetch a great price on the black market. Only ever used one once." His expression grew fond. "Ended up spending a week with a Kalirrik kinsmen. The things he could do with his tentacles..." He trailed off, eyes distant, while Gwen suppressed a shiver. There were times when she really hoped that Jack was making this stuff up.

Owen cut in, having given up the pretense of spectating at a distance while Jack reminisced. "So it's an alien sex toy."

"Kind of. The official explanation involves a few more bells and whistles, and some mystical jargon, but then the Davorians were heavy on the dogma. Why the sudden interest?"

"Well, erm..." Gwen rubbed unconsciously at the mark on her neck, and Jack's eyes widened.

He looked from her to Owen, and back again. "Oh, you're _kidding_ me."

"Not funny, mate." Owen glared at Jack, and Gwen could feel his irritation feeding her own. This time, she didn't even try to fight it. Tosh was looking far more disconcerted than Gwen felt was necessary; it wasn't like this kind of thing hadn't happened _before_. Trying to cut the spectacle off before it got any further, she asked the obvious question.

"How do we fix it?"

Jack shrugged, eyes laughing even as his expression grew more serious. "Time."

"Time?"

"It takes six days for the effects to dissipate. Well, six days give or take. It varies with different biochemistries."

"So we're going to spend six days...?" Gwen made a helpless gesture with her hand, pretending desperately that her cheeks weren't burning with embarrassment. It was one thing for the team to suspect that she was occasionally shagging Owen, although they'd gotten better at keeping it out of work since the second go-round. It was something else entirely for them to _know_.

"Um, yeah. Pretty much. Oh, and you probably shouldn't leave the Hub for the next few days. Just until we're sure there are no adverse reactions, that it's working properly, how long it's going to last, etc."

Ianto cleared his throat, tray of mugs in hand. "If I may suggest, I recently finished clearing room 216 in the South tunnel. It could be converted to temporary quarters with only minimal effort."

Jack selected one of the mugs and took a sip. "Good man. I'm going to need you out in the field until these two are back to normal, so see if you can dig out that old 'Closed for Repairs' sign for the next few days. You two, no sex in the tourist office. Or the main work areas. Or the autopsy bay. And _definitely_ no sex in my office. Not that I'm against exhibitionism in principle, but I can't trust you two to clean up after yourselves right now. Tosh, I want you to start a database search on everything we know about Davorian culture. Right, people, let's get to it."

And just like that, Gwen's sex life became part of Torchwood's daily business.

* * *

 

The quarantine lasted 53 hours. Jack had originally ordered a 72 hour confinement, but several hours of dedicated effort on Gwen's part convinced him that they should be allowed out early. His condition was that she and Owen were going in separate cells for the rest of the week if he got a call from the police about public indecency. Luckily, that didn't look to be a problem. The device may have been an aphrodisiac, but it didn't completely override common sense. While Gwen had been walking around with a perpetual blush, Owen hadn't even bothered to pretend to be embarrassed; he just dragged Gwen off into the South tunnel every few hours with a smirk on his face.

When things finished up for the day, Jack tossed Owen the keys to the SUV. "Take Tosh and Gwen, pick up whatever you're going to need for the next four days, and bring back dinner. You've got two hours."

* * *

 

When they reached Gwen's building, she managed to convince Tosh and Owen to let her go in alone. The last thing she needed was the two halves of her life coming into explosive contact. When the lift doors slid shut, the anxiety that she'd been carefully ignoring kicked in full force. By the time she stepped out on the third floor, she was ready to turn around and leave, and she didn't even know _why_. This was her flat just as much as Rhys'; she'd always paid her share. All she was doing was grabbing an overnight bag for work. Her jumper might have only 3/4 sleeves, but the collar was high enough to hide any tell-tale marks, and as far as she knew, Rhys might not even be home.

As she dug her keys out of her pocket, Gwen took a deep breath, chastising herself. She'd dealt with any number of things strange and terrible and fantastical while still managing to come home with a smile on her face; tonight was no different. Except that when the door opened, she could hear voices. Not the telly, this was Rhys and someone else. Another woman.

Leaving her key in the door with a sinking feeling, Gwen stepped into the living room. Rhys and a friend, definitely not his sister, were leaning over a pot on the cook top, laughing. From the way his hand was settled on her waist, he wasn't just showing off his special sauce. She felt cold, numb. She had known that it would happen, but not _now_. Not yet. Not. Not like this. "Rhys?"

He turned, and had the good grace to look embarrassed. "Gwen. I, uh, I thought you were out of town."

She clutched at the strap of her purse, adjusting it as she tried to remember her cover story. Lies within lies, that was Torchwood. Only now the lies had come home to roost. "Change of plans. Came by to pick up some clothes for the rest of the week." She blinked hard, and backed away toward the entryway and the bedroom access. "I'll." She cleared her throat and tried again. "I'll just be a tic."

"Gwen, wait." Rhys was crossing the room, and then he was _there_, his hand on her wrist. "Just, let me explain."

His words barely registered; all that she could comprehend was the feel of his skin, and how _silent_ it was after the last few days of instinctive physical communication. She pulled away, breaking his grip and shaking her head. "Let go of me, Rhys."

"Gwen, please. We can talk about this." He grabbed hold of her upper arm, catching a bruise that he didn't - couldn't - know about under her jumper, and she winced.

"Don't _touch_ me!" She wrenched away, and as she rounded the corner she ran smack into Owen. He looked _furious_, his face dark in a way she'd seen only once or twice before, and been thankful she hadn't been the cause of. Rhys followed before she could say anything, again reaching out toward her. Owen shifted, placing a possessive hand on her shoulder and glaring at Rhys until he retracted his hand.

"Step. The fuck. Away."

Rhys blinked at Owen, obviously not knowing what to make of the strange man standing in his hallway, manhandling _his_ girlfriend, no less. "Look, I don't know who the Hell you think you are, but this is a private discussion, and-"

"Who I am is none of your business, mate. Why don't you go back to your _friend_." Gwen didn't need to look up to know how Owen's face twisted as he spat the word at her boyfriend. "Gwen will be gone just as soon as she gets her kit."

"Owen-"

"Now wait just a bloody minute!"

"Gwen, get your things. Tosh isn't going to wait forever." Owen's voice brooked no argument, and after a moment of silent exchange she realized that she didn't _want_ to argue. She didn't want to deal with this tonight, not when things were already so far off kilter. She'd wait to have her breakdown until Owen was no longer privy to every last emotion. And he was mad, but it was a controlled fury; he wouldn't hurt Rhys, not unless Rhys threw the first punch. With that assurance in mind, she gave a resigned nod and stepped around Owen and disappeared toward the bedroom. It threw Rhys, because he'd _never_ had that kind of connection with her. Once he was sure she was out of earshot, Owen turned his attention back to Rhys. "So. The infamous Rhys. Have to say, not quite how I pictured you, but then I don't really spend much time at it."

Owen shifted, putting his hands into the pockets of his jacket with a studied casualness. "Now, I don't much care at this point if you're in the right or the wrong; _really_, not my problem. Certainly not my place to judge. What I do care is that you picked a shit way of making your decision known. She deserved better than that." He turned, and headed after Gwen, toward what he assumed was the bedroom. He didn't trust himself to keep his mouth shut, and despite whatever it was that the device had done to them, he knew it wasn't his fight. He didn't have that right. Didn't _want_ that right.

He found Gwen staring blindly into the closet, a duffel forgotten at her feet. She was a jumble of emotions, pain and resignation riding highest in the pile. He closed the distance between them and reached down, picking up the bag and pulling it open before forcing her to take it.

"Look, for right now, it's done. You can sort it out next week, or next month, or bloody well never for all I care. But ignoring that, you look dreadful when you cry, so if you're going to start then for God's sake wait until we're out in the rain. Tosh has got to be having kittens by now as it is."

Gwen startled at the mention of their co-worker. "Tosh, right. I should, um..."

Owen placed a hand on her shoulder and she turned, looking up at him and catching his gaze. _Anger, Frustration, Sympathy, Mirrored-Pain, Lust, Annoyance, Comfort._ Taking a deep breath, she turned back to the task at hand and took the bag from him, shoving items in haphazardly. When she was finished, Owen followed her out. When they reached the front hallway, he almost ran into her when she stopped without warning. He opened his mouth to complain, because _really_, but stopped when he realized what she was going to do. From where they stood, they could hear Rhys and his 'friend' talking. Owen had to give her credit, she was offering to bow out a hell of a lot more gracefully than some chits he'd known. But then, she also had a bit more to account for.

"Look, I don't want to cause any problems with your flatmate. Why don't I go home, and we can meet for drinks next week."

Gwen stepped up into the living room, cutting off whatever response Rhys was in the process of making. "Don't bother. I'm gone the week with work. Like Owen said, just came by to pick up my kit. Glad you're getting on with my _flatmate_. He needs someone to keep him in line." She turned and walked out, ignoring whatever Rhys might have had to say. Owen was right, for once; this wasn't the time.

Two steps out into the night, she felt Owen's hand curl possessively around her waist; his fingers settled over the long-healed reminders of an encounter with the wrong end of a shotgun. On any other day, she would have shrugged him off and told him exactly where he could shove his pity. Instead, she allowed the caress, sinking gratefully into the sympathy and unconscious support that flickered through the bond. She was _tired_, of the lies and the stress and of burning the candle at both ends. It felt good to let someone else hold her up, just for a moment.

"It was still a shit way to find out." His voice was rough, and a swell of righteous anger brushed against the edges of her mind, blanketed by the softer sensation that accompanied the moments they spent alone. Whatever it was, it shattered something deep inside that she hadn't known could be broken.

She felt the inexplicable urge to laugh bubble up, but when it reached the open air it turned into a sob. Suddenly she was pressed against his chest, weeping for something that only now could she acknowledge was long dead.

Owen didn't do comfort well; he never had. So when her tears stopped, their watery trails swept clean even as their traces lingered in her thoughts, Owen did the only thing he could think of. He kissed her, on the walk in front of her flat, in the middle of the pouring rain.

* * *

 

Several moments later, breathless and soaked, the two finally made their way to the SUV. Owen made a face at finding Tosh in the driver's seat, and pulled the door open. "Out."

"No. Just, no. You ran off and left me, no explanation, no _nothing_. What would have happened if Jack had called? 'Be right back' doesn't work when you're under _alien influence_, Owen. You're lucky I didn't call it in, have _him_ haul your ass back to the hub."

Owen rolled his eyes, and leaned against the body of the SUV. "Right, look. You want to drive, you can drive. But I want a drink before I have to go back into the Hub for the rest of my natural life, and I rather think Gwen might like one, too."

Tosh blinked at the unexpected acquiescence, and would have questioned it had she not caught sight of Gwen in the rear-view mirror. The subdued expression on her friend's face convinced Tosh that maybe a drink _would_ be a good idea. "Fine. But I'm driving."

She parked a few blocks from the Plass, and they walked into one of the pubs they often frequented at the end of a long day. A smile got her two pints and a double of whiskey, and by the time she had the drinks in hand Owen and Gwen had claimed a booth in one of the darker corners. It was short work to sort out what had happened at Gwen's flat, and by the time it was done Tosh was glad that they'd stopped off before returning to the Hub.

* * *

 

Jack was not amused, although it was a tough call on whether it was the glossed over recollection of Owen's decision to dash off into the night, or their lack of take away which caused his annoyed glare. Or possibly the fact that they were half an hour early, and Ianto had been suspiciously mussed when he emerged from the kitchenette. Gwen and Owen took the first available chance to dash off and change into dry clothing, leaving Tosh to explain why they'd forgotten to bring back dinner.

* * *

 

When Gwen and Owen returned to the central hub after a quick change of clothes, Jack didn't think much of it. Yes, he'd expected them to take a bit longer - and had instructed Ianto accordingly in terms of when to place the order for take away - but it was possible that the aphrodisiac properties of the device were dissipating faster than anticipated. It would certainly make _his_ life easier if that were the case.

Such hopes were dashed when the two 'lovebirds', as Ianto had taken to calling them privately, strode purposefully into his office and closed the door. Or, to be more specific, when Gwen opened her mouth and what came out sounded like "Owen and I are getting married."

Jack blinked, not entirely certain that this wasn't a practical joke of some kind. "What was that?"

Gwen crossed her arms and glared petulantly at him. "I _said_, Owen and I want to get married."

Jack had heard her right. Damn. He didn't remember this particular side effect of the Betrothal Sealer, but he'd be the first to admit his memories of that week were a bit fuzzy. And if what Tosh had said was true, there was a rebound factor to contend with, as well. Best to take the direct approach, then. "Gwen, how much did you have to drink when you stopped at the pub?"

Gwen didn't even bother to ask how he knew they'd stopped for drinks; insulting his intelligence - and Ianto's skill with the CCTVs - would get her nowhere, and she wasn't sure whether Tosh had mentioned it or not after they'd abandoned her to deal with Jack. "One beer, Jack. I know what you're thinking; poor Gwen got dumped and went out to get herself pissed, but I'm _not_. I'm being practical. If I marry Owen, you see, then I'm guaranteed regular sex. I _like_ regular sex, Jack. It's so much _work_ to pick up a bloke in a bar."

Jack looked over at Owen, who shrugged in a "hey, why not?" kind of way. Jack was willing to bet that Owen had tossed back more than one beer, but he didn't say anything. Owen was a big boy, and unlike Gwen this wasn't going to have potentially messy ramifications on _his_ life. "What about Rhys?"

Surprisingly, it was Owen who visibly tensed at that, but Gwen was the first to answer. "This isn't about Rhys. This is about _me_. It's too bloody much work being single."

Jack settled back in his chair. "So why are you telling me this?"

"We want you to marry us."

"What?" Jack had been subject to stranger requests, sure, but it was the principle of the thing. "Why?"

"You're a Captain." Gwen said, as if that explained everything. Hell, maybe in her current state of inebriation it did. Except she didn't look quite that far gone. He gestured for her to elaborate. "You can do it without a fuss. Do it tonight."

"Right." Jack thought it over for a minute or two, and then shrugged and stood, moving toward the door. "I'll ask Ianto if we can even do that here. No promises, of any sort. You!" He paused in the doorway and pointed to Gwen. "You start reciting the alphabet backward." He shifted his attention to Owen. "You help her."

* * *

 

By the time Jack returned, Gwen was stuck somewhere around Q, and Owen wasn't doing much better. Jack had a momentary pang of conscience, because the two were obviously drunker than they claimed, even if it hadn't been apparent during the initial debrief. He made a mental note to have Ianto find out what, exactly, Owen was keeping in the autopsy storage cabinets before returning to the matter at hand. A wedding, even one doomed to an almost immediate reversal, would be a good excuse to order expensive take away and let the team loosen up during the quiet spell. They'd certainly earned it, and this would give them something to joke about later, without the unfortunate overtones the device might otherwise conjure up. After all, stranger things had happened to all of them, and it wasn't like anyone would be _hurt_.

* * *

 

It took half an hour to perform the actual marriage, although it took a good deal longer than that for the preparations. Tosh was into her fourth champagne cocktail, and Gwen and Owen were listing rather impressively by the time the signatures were scanned and submitted to the electronic registry, but they were all smiling. Jack couldn't remember the last time he'd seen the team so relaxed, and decided that any hysterics in the morning would be more than a fair trade-off for an evening without their ever-present responsibilities.

Once the marriage was registered, Ianto started the wheels in motion for the in-house paperwork. It was only sensible to stay on top of these things, after all, and it was far easier to complete a few forms at a sitting rather than reams of the damn things at the end of the month/quarter/year. Marriages between Torchwood employees weren't strictly prohibited, so there was no concern of a reassignment, and it was best to get the details sorted before the rift returned to its senses and started spitting out various and sundry aliens.

* * *

 

The next morning, Ianto entered Jack's office with a cup of coffee and a manilla folder containing the required forms. "If you could sign these, sir?"

Jack opened the folder, absently taking a sip of his coffee before setting it down in favour of clasping Ianto's hand, lazily stroking his thumb back and forth as he read. He knew he'd become more tactile since the year that wasn't, but the control just wasn't worth it in the quiet moments. Ianto didn't seem to begrudge him the contact, and often returned it. Sometimes, Jack wondered if he wasn't the only one to need a bit of grounding. Flipping through the pages, he frowned at what he found. "Personnel file updates? I don't think we're going to be needing these."

"Why not, sir? The marriage was registered last night, before midnight. Any problems in the filing should have been reported this morning, and there was nothing in your email."

Jack released his hand, leaning back in his chair and giving Ianto an appraising glance as the younger man leaned against the desk. "Why Ianto Jones, have you been snooping through my mail again?"

Ianto blinked in what passed for an innocent manner around Torchwood Three. "Well, _sir_, it's the only way UNIT ever gets a response out of us, and occasionally they take the neglect personally. You _do_ wish to retain the contributions that the Ministry of Defence makes to our budget, a few steps removed though the actual government might be, don't you?"

Jack made an unpleasant face, and reached for his coffee mug as if to wash a bad taste out of his mouth. "Oh, right. _That_."

"Yes, sir. Now if you'll sign the papers?"

"But honestly, Ianto. Why bother? They're just going to get divorced after they sleep off the hang-over. As Owen pointed out yesterday, they're not exactly a hearts and flowers kind of couple."

"Jack!"

"Oh, come _on_. Don't sound so scandalized. Everyone knows that the Welsh No-Fault Divorce Bill passed in 20...oh. Damn. Um, oops?"

"_Jack!_"

The man in question set his coffee mug down and bought himself a moment to think by pulling Ianto into his lap. One distraction led to another, and for a long moment Jack allowed himself to sink into the reassuring warmth of his lover's kiss. When they broke for breath, Jack ghosted a line of kisses up the side of Ianto's jaw.

"Have I told you lately how much I love your coffee?"

Ianto made a sound deep in his throat that Jack suspected had begun life as a chuckle. "Nice try, Captain Harkness. Unfortunately, two of your employees are still going to wake up unhappily married and stuck that way for the next two years."

Jack sighed. "Well, look. Maybe my ordination's been revoked by now. I filed for it back in the nineties, and it was one of those internet things."

"I'd been meaning to ask how you ended up an ordained minister, but I suppose my curiosity shall have to wait." Regretfully, Ianto stood, demonstrating far more grace than his descent had indicated. "I suggest that you call the Hall of Records and find out if the ceremony was legal, to start with." Ianto turned, casting a glance out at the hub where Toshiko had just powered up her workstation for the day, looking rather worse for the night of spontaneous celebration. "Preferably before the happy couple in question wake up from their night of debauchery."

* * *

 

In a fair world, there would have been hangovers and headaches all around, following the degree of festivity which had followed the Cooper-Harper wedding. Sadly, Torchwood did not exist in a fair world, and Gwen and Owen woke up feeling no ill effects from the previous evening. Tosh spent most of the morning throwing them dirty looks, before Ianto commented that he hadn't actually seen them drink anything but a single glass of champagne each. That caught everyone's attention, because Gwen and Owen had been putting their spotty memory of the evening down to getting pissed. A few basic tests confirmed that their ethanol levels were consistent with minimal drinking, and a few more tests found the cause of the inconsistency - subtle changes in their neurochemistry, caused by the betrothal sealer.

Physiological changes hadn't been in Jack's explanation of the device, and led Tosh to flag the Davorian technology search as high priority for the database. Half an hour later they had their answers.

"The device was designed to operate in two modes, one recreational and one religious. The recreational mode was designed to facilitate inter-species liaisons in conjunction with the signing of diplomatic accords. That must be the mode you're familiar with, Jack. The religious mode was designed for the binding of two members of the same species, which is what's happened here. The only real difference seems to be the establishment of a low-level psychic bond for the duration of the 'betrothal' period. At the end of the period, the bond fades. There's a bit here that didn't translate, which I can only assume refers to the fading process, and a warning that consumption of ethanol may lead to memory loss."

Jack frowned, eyes growing cold as he studied the couple in question. "Wait a minute, here. You two have been walking around with a telepathic bond, and you _didn't feel the need to mention it?_"

"You said you knew how the soddin' thing worked! How were we supposed to know it had more than one setting?" Owen crossed his arms defensively and glared. "We thought you _knew_."

Gwen nodded. "It's not like we can read each other's minds or anything. Just feelings. Sometimes."

"Don't assume. We're all human here, that means we miss things." His eyes grew distant as memory surfaced unbidden. "Even things we shouldn't."

Gwen broke the ensuing silence. "Speaking of missing things, can anyone tell me where this ring came from?"

"Tosh found it. Well, found them, really, somewhere around her third champagne cocktail. She thought they'd make a perfect wedding present."

Owen choked on his coffee. "Wedding present?"

Jack nodded, and looked distressingly guilty. "Yes. Quite charming technology, actually. Bonds on a cellular level to the wearer of its mate, and glows when it comes into contact with the appropriate DNA. Of course, yours didn't fit properly, but Gwen's did, and you didn't seem to mind at the time."

Jack's news did what the alcohol had failed to, and both Gwen and Owen were left looking more than a little green. Gwen was the first to find her voice. "You're joking, right? You can't possibly tell me that we got _married_ last night?"

Jack shifted uncomfortably. "Well, when you put it that way? Um, yeah."

"You have _got_ to be fucking kidding me." Owen's body language had shifted from queasy to annoyed. Very annoyed. "You don't just _get married_. There's all sorts of paperwork, and waiting periods, and I sure as hell don't remember a minister."

Ianto cleared his throat, having returned with coffee. "I believe you'll find that Jack is, among other things, a fully ordained minister. He and Tosh handled the paperwork. The license was filed at half-eleven last night, and I believe that if you look, there are records indicating a notice of intent was posted sixteen days ago."

Jack waved a hand in protest. "Whoa, whoa. I had _nothing_ to do with the notice. I just signed the paperwork and watched you two exchange rings."

Gwen swallowed hard, and without further warning bolted into the tunnels. After looking around and getting a whole mess of "don't look at me" expressions, Owen rolled his eyes and headed after her with a muttered "Useless, you lot are. Bloody useless."

Jack spent the rest of the morning hiding in his office, trying to decide whether he could sanction having Ianto hack into the county records office and delete the registration. Every time he started to seriously consider it, however, the 'support agent' in question would show up with a mug of coffee and give him disproving looks. After all, there were abuses of Torchwood technology, and then there were abuses of Torchwood technology. Ianto said something to the effect of how Jack was going to sit there and wait until Gwen and Owen sorted things out, even if Ianto had to tie him to his chair.

Jack found this an intriguing notion.

* * *

 

Owen caught up with her in an old storage room that opened off of the East tunnel. She was pacing, picking up and replacing empty boxes that had once held cleaning supplies. After a moment of consideration, he decided to take the direct approach. He crossed the room, and took a box from her in order to catch her attention. "You don't have to get your knickers in a knot, you know." She looked up sharply, but he didn't give her time to interrupt. "We can just pretend we're still single; it's not like anyone will know, right? People do it all the time. Only time it matters is if we _actually_ want to get married, and with this job? Not bloody likely. So we wait two years, file the papers, and poof! It all goes away."

She frowned, because something was wrong. A week ago, she wouldn't have seen it, wouldn't have _felt_ it. But now she could, and it kept her from accepting his offer. "You don't want that."

"This isn't about what I want. This is about what you want." He turned away, throwing the box at the pile. "I'm giving you a fucking out. _Take it_." He was angry, but most of the emotion crackling in the air was pain. Old pain. She couldn't, _wouldn't_ let that go. Not this time.

"No."

"What?"

"I said no. Not like this. Why are you so anxious to bury this?"

"Why aren't you? It was a mistake, Gwen. A stupid, drunken mistake. That's all."

She could almost taste the lie, it hung so heavy in the air between them. She spoke slowly, thinking it through as she went. "I don't think so. We weren't _that_ drunk last night, and you wanted it then. What's wrong, you think Diane's going to come back?"

Owen flinched, looking away. His voice dropped to a painful rasp. "She's not coming back. They never do." He cleared his throat, bringing his attention back to the current topic. "Torchwood is a death sentence for relationships; even you know that by now. Why bother to pretend any different?"

"Is that why you...with me? Some sort of mercy kill for my outside life?"

He shrugged, but she knew she was right. Or, partially right. The problem with emotions was that they were never simple. She grabbed his shoulder, shaking him. "Was that why?"

He stepped out of her grip, leaning against a long-abandoned desk. "That was part of it. The rest of it was you. All that enthusiasm, that _energy_. You _had_ to be fun in the sack."

She walked over, cocking her head to the side and peering up to meet his gaze. "Was I?"

That surprised a laugh out of him. "Fuck, yes. It was _nice_ having someone who understood. Didn't ask questions for all the right reasons. Still is, when it works."

She paused, feeling oddly calm as she studied his profile in the light of the room's single fluorescent bulb. "Think we could make it work? I mean, _really_ make it work?"

He shrugged, and avoided her gaze. "I don't know, love. Not sure I want to find out. I don't do domestic."

"I'm not talking domestic. Well, maybe I am, but not really. Just...wouldn't it be nice to know that you're not putting someone at risk by sleeping with them? To not have to worry about how early you have to be out the door before your one-night-stand wakes up? To know, really _know_, that you're not alone at night? That sometimes the nightmares are real?"

"Well, I-"

"Never mind the sex. Ever since we touched that device, this, this _thing_ is the best I've ever had. It was damn good before that, and- " She pushed off the wall, stood in front of him, and reached up, breaking into a cheeky grin as she tapped his temple. "I know it's been good for you, too." Her expression grew serious again, and she withdrew her hand. "What if we just...keep doing it. What we've been doing. Throw our lot in for a bit, see where we land. Not hearts and flowers and matching dishes; we'd be rubbish at that. _I'm_ rubbish at that. I don't _want_ to be in love; love _hurts_. Hell, you know that. But we can't do worse than we are now, half-in and half-out. And don't tell me you don't know what I'm talking about, because I _know_ better."

Owen turned away, pacing across the room in his agitation. "You think you know better? Think you know me so fucking well after three days running around my skull, poking about at things you've got no business seeing. Let me tell you something, Gwen Cooper, you _don't_ know everything. You don't even come _close_. We're not all some project for you to fix, just because you think everyone should have a happily ever after." He felt her flinch through the bond, and while it felt good to know that he'd scored his point, there wasn't the satisfaction that normally came with the success. Instead, there was a cold, empty sensation where he had grown used to feeling her through the bond, and he felt guilty. Not about all of it, she'd been on a high horse since she'd started at Torchwood and never really come down off of it, but at the same time, she was right. Even if they were looking for different things in the fine print, this was the best offer either of them was going to get any time soon.

He closed his eyes, resting his head against the cool wall as his breathing settled back to normal. _Marriage_. Even if they didn't talk about it, it was still always going to be in the background. God, what was he getting into? With a sigh, he shifted and angled his head so as to see her without losing contact with the wall. He was getting nothing through the bond, and it worried him. She looked pale and shaky, like she was contemplating the merits of becoming violently ill. Classic symptoms of shock, some small part of his mind noted. Her voice was quiet, but steady when she spoke.

"If that's how you feel about it, then fine. I knew what I was getting into when we started this; I can damn well see myself out."

"Gwen." He paused as he pushed himself off the wall, taking a deep breath and praying that he wasn't making the worst mistake of his (potentially) short life. "I didn't mean it. You _know_ I didn't mean it. I'm a bastard sometimes." He gave a self-depreciating laugh and closed the distance between them. "A lot of the time. But if you think this can work, then yeah. I'll give it a go."

Her answer was a kiss, light and obviously intended to be short and sweet. Somewhere in all of the confusion, however, she'd forgotten about the chemical addiction they were currently suffering from. It was close to an hour before they made their way back to the Hub to inform Jack of their decision.

* * *

 

In the end, the marriage went down in the books as being just another week in the life of Torchwood. Jack spent a few weeks shooting vaguely guilty expressions at Gwen, Ianto locked the Davorian Betrothal Sealer away in the archives, and Tosh flagged the item profile as having a variable psychic component. To everyone's surprise, Gwen and Owen chose not to have the official records altered. As Gwen pointed out, no one had been harmed by a few bits of paperwork, and it would be easier to just wait and file for divorce when and if the need arose. The likelihood of either of them marrying anyone, well, anyone _else_, grew smaller with each day they worked for Torchwood. The average life expectancy for a Torchwood field agent was thirty-five, and even if Canary Wharf may have skewed that statistic a bit, neither of them were holding out hope for a storybook romance with a civilian. Not any more.

When the sixth day came around, the device lit up and flashed a string of symbols before going dormant again, and everyone breathed a sigh of relief. To be on the safe side, Tosh ran the symbols through the translation program. It promptly spat out "Sealing completed. Match compatible."

Everyone turned to Gwen and Owen, who were carefully not looking at each other. After a moment of silence, Owen stood up and grabbed his jacket. "You know, if all it was going to tell us was that we had Tab A and Slot B, we really could have saved all the drama. Not that I mind the occasional bit of exhibitionism..."

Jack cut him off before he could take the thought any further. "You've made your point, Owen. Take the rest of the day off. I'll call you if I need you."

"Don't have to tell me twice."

"I didn't think I would. Gwen, you're welcome to head out as well. If you want to stick around, I've got some more of the AT-FOS forms that need to be processed."

* * *

That evening, Owen answered the bell expecting to find the pizza delivery kid. Instead, he found Gwen, who smiled and handed him the box she was holding. "One way or another, this is all your fault. So you're putting me up until I can find a new flat."

Wisely, Owen didn't disagree.

~ Finis ~


End file.
